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The New Print Edition of CounterPunch, Only for Our Newsletter Subscribers! How Cops Extort Confessions;
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The New Print Edition of CounterPunch, Only for Our Newsletter Subscribers!
How Cops Extort Confessions;
How the U.S. “Justice System” Really WorksNinety-two per cent of felony convictions in the U.S. are obtained by plea bargains or confessions. Without them the “justice system” would grind to a halt. In an important piece in our latest newsletter, available only to subscribers, Emily Horowitz shows how totally innocent people will “confess” under police pressure, even without physical torture. Horowitz outlines the powerful case for banning confessions altogether. Also in this new edition Marcus Rediker, co-author of the legendary The Many Headed Hydra, writes of popular heroism and resistance in the favelas of Medellin, Colombia. Alexander Cockburn reports on how America’s oldest bank, patronized by the global elites, washed billions smuggled out of Russia, and how the Russians might win their money back, shaking the world’s banking system if they do so. Serge Halimi describes the real battle for the soul of Europe. Get your copy today by subscribing online or calling 1-800-840-3683 Contributions to CounterPunch are tax-deductible. Click here to make a donation. If you find our site useful please: Subscribe Now! CounterPunch books and gear make great presents.
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Today's Stories August 28, 2008 Judy Gumbo Albert August 27, 2008 Anthony DiMaggio Jordan Flaherty Ralph Nader Melissa Checker Bob Sommer Cynthia McKinney Ali Khan M. Junaid Levesque-Alam Dave Lindorff David Macaray Website of the Day
August 26, 2008 Patrick Cockburn Michael D. Yates Paul Craig Roberts Andy Worthington Rev. Jesse L. Jackson Huwaida Arraf Joseph Grosso Sheldon Richman Binoy Kampmark Website of the Day August 25, 2008 Patrick Cockburn Bill Quigley Jonathan Cook James McEnteer Uri Avnery Will Potter Robert Jensen Stephen Lendman Wajahat Ali Carl Finamore Website of the Day August 23 / 4, 2008 Alexander Cockburn Jeffrey St. Clair Patty O'Grady Nicole Colson Steve Conn Deepak Trapathi Robert Fantina Jonathan M. Feldman Joshua Frank Osama Qashoo Howard Lisnoff David Michael Green Dave Lindorff Christopher Brauchli Alan Farago Michael Winship Richard Rhames David Rosen Patrick B. Barr Jamie Newlin Poets' Basement Website of the Weekend August 22, 2008 Boris Kagarlitsky Laura Carlsen Bob Barr Marwan Bishara Peter Morici Manuel Garcia, Jr. Charles Mostoller Sumbul Ali-Karamali Keith Rosenthal John F. Miglio Website of the Day August 21, 2008 Allan J. Lichtman Dave Lindorff Loserville: How Obama Blew It Ralph Nader Joanne Mariner Wajahat Ali Ron Jacobs Rostam Purzal Anthony Papa Website of the Day August 20, 2008 Michael Neumann Ray McGovern Eric Walberg Fidaa Abed Daniel Haack Mike Whitney Website of the Day August 19, 2008 Paul Craig Roberts Deepak Tripathi Marwan Bishara Saul Landau William S. Lind Martha Rosenberg James Brittain Pratyush Chandra David Macaray Website of the Day August 18, 2008 Tariq Ali Gary Leupp Uri Avnery John Ross Farooq Sulehria Luis Rodriguez Manuel Garcia, Jr. Noah Baker Merrill Charles Thomson Website of the Day August 16 / 17, 2008 Alexander Cockburn Jeffrey St. Clair Deepak Tripathi Conn Hallinan Mike Whitney Robert Fantina Ray McGovern Nicole Colson Fatima Bhutto Jean-Luis Rocca David Michael Green Ramzi Kysia Dave Lindorff Lisa Martinovic Richard Rhames Don Santina Rannie Amiri Ramzy Baroud John Stanton Howard Lisnoff Ron Jacobs Seth Sandronsky Poets' Basement Website of the Weekend
August 15, 2008 Steve Niva David Remington Michael Winship Paul Craig Roberts Farzana Versey Harvey Wasserman Felice Pace Julian Critchley Website of the Day August 14, 2008 Saul Landau / Conn Hallinan Mike Whitney Reza Fiyouzat Ralph Nader Christopher Brauchli The Cheerleader in China Jack Bradigan Spula Patrick Irelan John Walsh Dan Bacher Website of the Day
August 13, 2008 Paul Craig Roberts David Remington Brian Cloughley Glen Ford Brendan Cooney Dave Lindorff Tom Lewis Stan Cox Alan Farago Martha Rosenberg Website of the Day August 12, 2008 Uri Avnery Anthony DiMaggio Bill Christison Eric Walberg Kate Connolly Diane Farsetta Peter Morici Thom Rutledge Lee Patton Niranjan Ramakrishnan Website of the Day August 11, 2008 Ishmael Reed Paul Craig Roberts Gary Leupp Douglas Kammen William Willers Greg Moses Jeff Leys Cynthia McKinney Alan Farago Website of the Day August 9 / 10, 2008 Alexander Cockburn Jeffrey St. Clair Bruce Jackson Kevin Young Chris Floyd Joshua Frank Robert Fantina Brendan Cooney Mark Almond Lois Gibbs Rev. William Alberts Kathy Kelly John Ross David Michael Green Bill Moyers / Ron Jacobs Richard Rhames David Yearsley Lee Sustar Brenda Norrell Ben Terrall Poets' Basement Website of the Weekend August 8, 2008 Patrick Cockburn Manuel Garcia, Jr. M. Shahid Alam Andy Worthington Lawrence J. Korb David Model Alan Farago Diop Olugbala Firmin DeBrabander Website of the Day August 7, 2008 Dr. Trudy Bond William Blum Paul Craig Roberts Ralph Nader Robert Weitzel Jacob G. Hornberger Binoy Kampmark David Macaray Howard Lisnoff Website of the Day August 6, 2008 Marc Herold Greg Moses Sheldon Rampton Kevin Young Michael Estrada Robert Weissman Dr. Susan Block Cindy Sheehan Ace Hoffman Website of the Day August 5, 2008 Paul Craig Roberts Jeff Halper Patrick Cockburn Nancy Welch Peter Morici Sousan Hammad Eamon Martin Shepherd Bliss Tim Matson Website of the Day August 4, 2008 Uri Avnery Saul Landau David W. Remington Rev. Jesse Jackson Dave Lindorff Peter Morici Joanne Mariner Ramzy Baroud Christian Wright Website of the Day August 2 / 3, 2008 Alexander Cockburn Jeffrey St. Clair Patrick Cockburn Winslow T. Wheeler James Abourezk Andy Worthington Brian Cloughley Robert Fantina Benjamin Dangl Marlene Martin David Yearsley Fatemeh Keshavarz David Michael Green Obama as Dukakis Harvey Wasserman Jason Hribal Phyllis Pollack Laray Polk Ron Jacobs David Macaray David Rosen Dan Bacher Joe Allen Poets' Basement Website of the Weekend August 1, 2008 Jonathan Cook Nikolas Kozloff Rannie Amiri Peter Morici Christopher Brauchli M. K. Bhadrakumar Patrick Cockburn James J. Brittain Dan Bacher Website of the Day
July 31, 2008 Michael Hudson Carl Finamore Mike Whitney Joshua Frank Andy Worthington Ralph Nader Bill Moyers / Robert Weissman Dave Lindorff Website of the Day July 30, 2008 Brian M. Downing Chuck Spinney William S. Lind David Ker Thomson Karl Grossman Mike Whitney Martha Rosenberg James Murren Dave Lindorff Ron Jacobs Website of the Day July 29, 2008 Jeffrey St. Clair John Ross Peter Morici Alison Weir Gary Leupp David Macaray Brenda Norrell Marjorie Cohn Eric Ruder Website of the Day July 28, 2008 Dr. Bryant Welch Kathy Kelly Mike Whitney Peter Morici Christopher Brauchli Clifton Ross Stephen Lendman Website of the Day
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August 28, 2008 Forty years ago this week I was in Chicago at the Democratic Convention– not as a delegate but as a member of the theatrical, countercultural, media-savvy protest group known as the Yippies. Then, as now, the Democratic Party was severely internally divided -- about race rather than gender, but especially over the war in Vietnam. We – Yippie leaders Abbie and Anita Hoffman, Jerry Rubin and Nancy Kurshan, my then boyfriend and later husband Stew Albert, the folksinger Phil Ochs and journalist Paul Krassner -- came to the Convention to hold a Festival of Life and nominate a pig for president. Our candidate, Pigasus, would, we believed, be infinitely more attractive to young people than the Democrat’s pro-war candidate Hubert Humphrey. Abbie, Anita, Jerry, Phil and Stew are all gone now, and, although I don’t expect the events described here to occur in Denver, our country is, as in 1968, engaged in an immoral and illegal war overseas that has been used by our current elected officials to put more draconian restrictions on dissent and freedom of speech than I once faced confronting the Democrats in Chicago. What follows is my recollection of those events.
Abbie always said we didn’t come to Chicago to oppose the Democrats, we came to oppose the war. Well before the convention is due to begin, Abbie, Jerry, Stew and Paul have been negotiating with Chicago Mayor Daley’s officials for permits. Permits to march and permits to sleep in the park. Permits for rallies and permits for the Festival of Life. Mayor Daley refuses to meet with them and sends a lower-level functionary, Deputy Mayor David Stahl, who both Abbie and Jerry ridicule because of his last name. But it’s no joke. All Stahl does is stall. Abbie, Paul, Jerry and Stew are not the only players in the Chicago permit drama. That honor also goes to Tom Hayden, founder of the decade’s major student anti war organization Students for a Democratic Society, Rennie Davis, a well-known anti-war activist whose blood will be spilled a few days later, and Dave Dellinger, a much beloved and older (meaning in his 50’s) pacifist and advocate for non-violent civil disobedience. They are the leaders of the larger, more traditional (traditional, that is, compared to the Yippies) anti-war organization called the National Mobilization to End the War in Vietnam or MOBE. For the sake of historical accuracy, I will also disclose that we Yippies claim we’re going to fuck on the beaches and burn Chicago to the ground. Ok, so, this sounds a little over the top threatening, but why would anyone in their right mind actually take Yippie seriously? Mayor Daley is not a Yippie. Nor is FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover. By the time we roll into town, police forces from all over the state have been brought in, the cops are wired, the National Guard is mobilized, and tension is extremely high. Stew always believed that Mayor Daley, a Democrat, was set up by FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover to overreact to our Yippie exaggerations, so Americans would watch approvingly on television as hippies and anti-war demonstrators are rightfully put down and Richard Nixon gets elected as a law and order candidate. Which is, in fact, what comes to pass. Mayor Daley denies all permits. In fact, six months before the Convention, Mayor Daley had issued a "shoot to kill" order for demonstrators. At most, 15,000 demonstrators show up for Convention week in Chicago. Perhaps it’s closer to 5,000. We never really find out. Thursday, August 22, 1968 Our decision to run a pig for President leads to a giant internal Yippie fight. Abbie, Anita and Paul want a tiny cute pig. Jerry gets incensed. It violates his sense of effective Yippie marketing: to adequately represent the candidates and all they stand for, the Yippie pig needs to be big, fat, ugly and mean. Jerry calls a meeting and, disregarding Stew’s advice to let it be, reads a statement out loud to Abbie, Anita and Paul, denouncing Abbie as a media-hungry “ego tripper”. Jerry even threatens to hand his statement out as a leaflet in Lincoln Park, if Abbie doesn’t relent about the size of the Yippie pig. I’m embarrassed for Jerry. I don’t understand the depths of his passion against Abbie but I know Abbie is fully capable of responding in kind. Never having experienced a dysfunctional family with two highly competitive male siblings, it seems to me that this is a really terrible precursor for the kind of society we Yippies are trying to create. For the rest of the convention Abbie and Jerry aren’t on speaking terms. But in some similarly familiar family way, this fight doesn’t destroy their friendship. Abbie says:
As, indeed, Jerry does cry after Abbie commits suicide in 1989. Jerry recruits Stew, me, Nancy, Phil, and Yippie tai chi expert Wolf Lowenthal to go out to the nearby Illinois countryside and purchase the largest, smelliest, most repulsive hog we can find. His (or more likely her) name will be Pigasus. After we pick out what looks to be a reasonably friendly 200 pound hog, the farmer makes us get into the pigpen and catch her ourselves. I’ll never forget how hysterically funny that was –all of us falling, slipping and sliding, covered in mud and pig poop. Phil, being more fastidious, declines to participate but he’s the one who pays the farmer. Somehow we manage to load Pigasus into our truck and take her back to Chicago for a press conference at the Civil Center the next day. On our way back, with occasional oinking in the background, Jerry advocates, in his forceful, Jerry, ad-man way, that the Yippies demand Pigasus get treated as a legitimate candidate, with secret service protection and foreign policy briefings. Pigasus’ platform, according to Jerry, will be that everyone in the world be allowed to vote in our election because America controls the world. Today America may no longer be the world’s only superpower, but I believe we Yippies were among the first to recognize the global reach of American elections. Perhaps Jerry’s platform for Pigasus was right. Friday, August 23, 1968. a.m. Chicago Civil Center is jammed with local and national media. As soon as Jerry, Stew and Wolf take Pigasus out of the truck, she’s arrested along with all her human companions, in front of television cameras, photographers and the press – a genuine, perfect Yippie media moment. Later, as a jailed Stew and Jerry await arraignment, a fat burly Chicago cop comes up to them and says: “ Boys, I have some bad news for you. The pig squealed.” We never see Pigasus again. Rumor has it she was sacrificed and eaten at a Chicago cop’s barbeque. Rest in Peace Pigasus: you served everyone well. It’s a rare thing you gave us – allowing nice Jewish girls and boys to get so intimate with pork. Sunday, August 25, 1968. a.m. We demand a society built along the alternative community in Lincoln Park, a society based on humanitarian cooperation and equality, a society which allows and promotes the creativity present in all people and especially our youth. (Yippie flyer written by Abbie for Lincoln Park detailing 18 Yippie points for our ideological platform and program) Today is the day scheduled for our Yippie Festival of Life, as a counter to what we call the Democratic “Convention of Death.” Among the missing in Lincoln Park are the bands -- scared off, because all the major media, mainstream and alternative, are predicting riots. Abbie is especially angry. He feels betrayed; he thought many of the famous musicians he invited were his friends. The only band to show up is the MC-5, a macho, overtly political, hard rock band out of Ann Arbor, managed by Yippie John Sinclair. Abbie, who is an excellent promoter but not especially a promoter of rock concerts, neglects to provide electricity, so wEd Sanders, a well known poet and lead singer of the Fugs, helps the MC5 plug an orange 300 foot extension cord into a nearby hot dog stand. MC5 founder Wayne Kramer remembers:
Immediately after they finish, the MC5 leave the Park as quickly as possible. I’m standing with Stew and Abbie close by the truck where the band had played, when Abbie hears over his walkie-talkie that the cops are entering the park some distance away. I look over at Stew and – o my god -- blood is running down through his blond curls and over his forehead. No uniformed cops are to be seen anywhere in the vicinity. I’m not usually afraid of blood. Doesn’t matter. I panic. So does Abbie. Stew’s a little woozy and sits down on the grass. ‘You’re bleeding,” I tell Stew. As if he didn’t know that. Isn’t it amazing the stupid things you say in a crisis? Abbie has the presence of mind to persuade the medics to take Stew to the hospital; his wound requires six stitches to close. The doctors tell Stew the wound was likely made by a blackjack. We figured it had to be an undercover cop. Stew’s is the first blood to be shed in Lincoln Park that Convention week. Sunday, August 25, 1968, p.m. All day long, Park employees are putting up signs saying there will be an 11 p.m. curfew. Stew, his head bandaged but in great spirits, and I and the rest of the Yippies are determined to ignore it. By 11 it’s pitch dark. Except that behind us, over the rolling hills of the park and through a few tall trees, you can make out something approaching. Then, over a hill, silhouetted against the darkness and trees, backlit by huge tall glowing lights, swirling at least 8 feet off the ground, comes a dense white/grey fog in front of which a line of ghostly cops has materialized, marching in formation. I’m in the middle of a live action war documentary. Stew and I, Jerry and Nancy stand up quickly. By now we smell something strange, toxic and burning -- tear gas. The line advances. It’s the scariest thing imaginable. Except I don’t feel scared. I ‘m exhilarated.. We’d learned earlier in the day to carry bandannas and scarves to put over our mouths to be able to breathe, but the grey, floating gas burns inside our noses, sticks to the bandannas and to our clothing. The bandannas are useless. Jerry and Nancy disappear. No yelling or screaming, the silence is eerie. The line of cops moves in closer behind us, the fog gets thicker, like a San Francisco fog gone bad. I observe other protestors, their silhouettes illuminated against the gas, running in the distance. It’s difficult to breathe. I choke up; tears run down my face. Everything is in slow-motion. But I’m not afraid. Stew is looking out for me, we’re running, together, side by side, propelled by an urgent imperative to get away. The tear gas unites us in a brand new kind of intimacy and commitment. I feel protected. I feel courageous. I am powerful. I’m fighting for what I believe. This is fun! Over a ridge and down in a small valley ahead of me, I see Allen Ginsberg, author of the epic poem Howl, in which he saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness. Allen is sitting on the grass, lotus position, balding, long curly dark hair, in a circle with about a dozen friends and acolytes. Ommmmmm…..they chant the mantra together as if to remind the universe that even in the midst of chaos all life is interconnected, and its soothing sound echoes through the tear gas ….Ommmmmmm…. Allen is a Yippie and we run toward him. “Boy, he’s not going to last very long”, I think to myself. The gas is getting very, very strong and potent. A few seconds after we run past, Allen’s group is forced to scatter. So much for mantras, gentle poets, and non-violent, loving spiritual practice. Were the Chicago cops fulfilling their personal piggy karma? Monday, August 26, 1968
Someone says that this particular type of teargas has been outlawed for use in Vietnam. That may be just a Yippie urban legend. Someone else says the lights were mounted on garbage trucks. Which turns out to be true. Nancy, Anita and I bring small cans of tempera paint to make protest signs. We can’t think of anything else to do. Wolf Lowenthal and Abbie lead groups of demonstrators in practicing tai-chi, we shout WA-SHOI together in the vain hope we’ll be able to get away as a crowd. Jerry and Stew try to come up with a strategy for dealing with the coming curfew, nothing seems appropriate. We don’t feel afraid, or depressed. At least I don’t. Or maybe all of us are in denial and none of us are showing it. Instead we’re almost manically exhilarated, we tell war stories of how we got away, of how striking black bus drivers gave us the Black power fist sign, of seeing a few policemen beat an ignominious retreat. The battle of Chicago has begun. Some time after dark a police bullhorn orders us to leave Lincoln Park or violate curfew. The Yippie gang, Stew and I and about 1000 other protesters jeer, hoot, holler, jump up and down and chant an old anti-draft slogan, which feels perfectly appropriate,: “Hell No, We Won’t Go.” No curfew for us – the park belongs to the people. Then, for some reason, a cop car drives into Lincoln Park. It’s a total provocation. So hundreds of us immediately surround it. Naturally, and also immediately, the police use this as an excuse to invade the park to rescue their comrades and attack us. But not just demonstrators, now the police are singling out reporters wearing business suits; reporters with credentials who they will club and beat bloody. I throw my 2” bottle of tempera paint at the offending police car. Doing that is pretty scary. My bottle bounces off the roof. Which makes me really happy. Usually I throw like the girl I am. At least this time I actually manage to hit something. This tiny act of confronting authority somehow overcomes any fear I have left and, for the first time in my life, I feel truly free. I’m actually euphoric. Forty years later, this is what I’ve come to understand about my time in Lincoln Park: In every woman’s life, opportunities will arise to face your fears. I’m not suggesting throwing a can of paint at a police car – only that it is very important to recognize when you’re actually in that unique “face my fear” moment. In such circumstances, take action. Don’t delay. Don’t procrastinate. Don’t over think the consequences. By facing your fear, you will discover inside yourself the courage to put your life– and your freedom -- into your own hands. Early Wednesday August 28, 1968 It’s 1 a.m. The park side of Michigan Avenue, across from the Hilton Hotel on where the delegates are staying, is lined with young National Guardsmen pointing their bayoneted rifles toward the sky. .As soon as Stew and I see the Guard coming, we and a few thousand others start yelling and screaming: Join us, Join us. For the record, Stew and I never yelled “baby killer” at anyone. Neither did anyone we knew. Nor, in all my years as an anti-war activist, did I ever hear anyone yell that. Plus I never got reports of anyone yelling that or overheard anyone say they saw it happen. I’ve come to believe that the image of protestors yelling “baby-killer” at GIs is a stereotype perpetrated by red-meat conservatives to swift boat the anti-war movement. However, I’m also confident that one or two of us did yell “baby killer’. After all, there will always be a person to fit the stereotype. Unless of course you’re Lt. William Calley. Above the lines of Guardsmen, facing the demonstrators, room lights are blazing on the many floors of the Hilton Hotel, while delegates in fancy coats and women in long dresses and fur stoles enter and exit the front lobby. I bet those delegates never imagined that when they paid extra money to reserve a room with a Park view, it came, free of charge, with demonstrators, National Guard, spotlights and tear gas. Together Phil Ochs and I walk the lines of national guardsmen. Phil is wearing his usual slacks and suit jacket with an American Flag pin. On the inside where it can’t be seen unless he shows it to you, Phil also wears a peace button. Jerry teases Phil about this incessantly, insistent, in his intense Jerry Rubin way, that Phil show his true colors by wearing his peace sign on the outside, and flag pin on the inside. Phil never complies. Phil was born in El Paso Texas and really loves America. Many nod. “I once spent $10 to go to one of your concerts” one complains. “I’ll never do that again.” In 1968, $10 was a lot of money. Phil stops and talks directly to the guy, explaining why he is opposed to the war. The Guardsman starts to smile, and even lowers his rifle a little bit, very appreciative that a celebrity like Phil is speaking to him like a real person. Phil believes in democracy. Phil shows me what it means to be an American patriot. The riots, gassing and beating of demonstrators protesting a disastrous war at the Democratic Convention in Chicago 1968 became a turning point in the history of American dissent. Many Americans, who already disapproved of the Vietnam War, were shocked and horrified at what they witnessed taking place on the streets of Chicago. Walter Cronkite, the most famous news anchor of the day observed: “They’re beating our children.” And we in turn chanted: The whole world is watching.” When Stew and I grow tired of the fighting, we make our way around the police lines, followed at some not too discreet distance by a relentless crew of plain-clothed cops. Back home, we jump into bed and make love that feels especially delicate, sweet and tender because, who knows, it could be our last time. Tomorrow we may be in jail or perhaps even dead. At 11 p.m. we turn on the television to watch ourselves on the local news. We are Yippies after all. Judy Gumbo Albert is an original member of the 1960s countercultural anti-war group known as the Yippies. Judy is co- author of The Sixties Papers: Documents of a Rebellious Decade (Greenwood Press, 1984) and The Conspiracy Trial (Bobbs Merrill, 1970). For many years she was an award winning fundraiser for Planned Parenthood. She is currently living in Berkeley, California and is writing a memoir titled "Yippie Girl" of which this is an excerpt. Judy can be reached at judygumboalbert@gmail.com.
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